


Vogue

by unexpectedtrash



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: #forasce, #lovelybang, ASCE IS AMAZING, Gen, Gift Fic, High Fashion Viktor, Sponsorships, Viktor's Dramatic Haircut: The Mystery, based on art
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-10
Updated: 2017-07-10
Packaged: 2018-11-30 04:32:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11456067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unexpectedtrash/pseuds/unexpectedtrash
Summary: “Oh my god, I’m so sorry!”She panics and scrambles off of his chest; when she turns to make even more apologies she stops up short at the sight. She’s crashed into Viktor fucking Nikiforov -- aka the youngest Olympic gold medalist in men’s figure skating at sixteen, aka a fey creature made out of ice and quad flips, aka the model of today’s photoshoot.





	Vogue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cainhurst](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cainhurst/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Victor](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/305880) by LovelyTitania. 



> SHOWER [ASCE](http://lovelytitania.tumblr.com) WITH LOVE!!!! 
> 
> This ficlet is based on her lovely lovely [portrait of Victor](http://lovelytitania.tumblr.com/post/162661242084/victor) and I saw it and my heart melted into goop because that sad lonely look in his eyes ;;;;; asce u asked me why i gotta do u like this weLL IT'S JUST PAYBACK 
> 
> pls do go to her blog and check out her work!!! it's the softest most beautiful drawings of the softest bois enough to make embittered edgelords like me soft fluffy hearts of love

Emily knew that this would be difficult photoshoot the moment they found out their connecting flight to St. Petersburg from Moscow was canceled; not so much because the engine failure on the plane they were supposed to catch was a sign of bad luck or anything, but more because of the way the creative director stalked through the halls of the Sheremetyevo International Airport like a tiger rattling at the bars of its cage. She really couldn’t blame Nigel for his frustration, though. What should have been a two-hour layover instead turned into twelve hours of aimless wandering in an airport that got colder as the night wore on, and curled up on a bench under a shitty airport blanket, Emily could almost sympathize with Nigel as he ripped the Russian organizers to shreds on the phone.

Now, though, it's hard not to balk at his constant hostility. Nothing seems to be good enough for him, from the wardrobe (too boring), the makeup (too flashy), to St. Petersburg itself (too cold and depressing). Even the ice didn't meet his standards -- it's apparently “too gray” and “not sparkly enough”. Emily’s still not sure how Nigel hadn't burst into flames for that comment. Yubileyny Sports Palace is a Mecca for hockey and figure skating, but watching Nigel try talk down to _Yakov Feltsman_ is surreal.

“Why is the ice gray? Can't we make it whiter? If we sprayed it with water will it sparkle?”

Nigel doesn't seen to realize that “I want to strangle you” isn't actually the default expression of most Russians.

They're still arguing about the ice quality and the stunts the creative team can reasonably expect from the model, so Emily sneaks off to a corner, snagging her camera to do a couple of test shots of the light and trying not to panic. She still doesn't know how the hell she managed to get this gig. She was just checking her email to see if her lab partner had emailed her the draft for their lab report and an invitation to do a photoshoot with fucking _Vogue_ was sitting in her inbox, next to chain emails and lolcats from her cousin.

“The team here at _Vogue_ believes in discovering new talents among the youth, and you were recommended to us by the Canadian Association of Photographic Art. The photographs you took for the Youth Chromatic Photography Award caught our attention, and we would like to work with you for our November 2006 issue, which will revolve around the theme of ‘Youth.'”

She’d been overjoyed, hoping that _finally_ someone actually values her work, but Emily really should have known that having a nineteen year-old photographer on set was just some sort of publicity schtick. Since they’ve gotten on-site, it’s become clear that Nigel is really here to enforce whatever it is the editorial board wants. Emily has no control over anything here; she had no say on the location, no say in the wardrobe or set design, and no say in content.

Still, it was a free trip to St. Petersburg, and who could turn the exposure down? She’s getting published in _Vogue_.

She tried to do her best to set the anxiety churning up in her stomach aside, and set off to do a few test shots. The light streaming in from the enormous windows was beautiful, and the industrial slant of the beams made for an interesting contrast with both the rigid grid of the window panes and the Neva River beyond. St. Petersburg, she’s found, is a city made for photography in autumn, and despite the chilly weather, the inconvenience of Aeroflot, and Nigel’s overbearing and suffocating oversight, nothing is going to stop Emily from milking the sights for all it’s worth to the tune of a personal portfolio.

Except, of course, someone physically stopping her.

She was too focused on her camera and didn’t notice the person coming in through the doors behind her, and she backs up into a stranger -- a stranger who spills coffee everywhere when Emily lands on his chest.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry!”

She panics and scrambles off of his chest; when she turns to make even more apologies she stops up short at the sight. She’s crashed into Viktor _fucking_ Nikiforov -- aka the youngest Olympic gold medalist in men’s figure skating at sixteen, aka a fey creature made out of ice and quad flips, aka the model of today’s photoshoot.

“Don’t worry, it’s okay!” His English is accented and almost guttural to Emily’s ears, but his smile is bright and charming. “Accidents, they happen to all.” He’s much more graceful at getting to his feet than Emily is, and of _course_ he is, he’s a world-famous figure skater and Emily barely qualifies as more than a brain and some connective tissue on most days.

“Vitya!” his coach roars from behind them. Mr. Feltsman goes on in angry Russian, and Nigel a vengeful angel of high fashion behind him, and Emily decides that Olympic champions can take care of themselves.

* * *

 

The drama didn’t end there. The hair stylists are in tears; the famous silver hair is gone, and with it, 99.9% of all of their design plans.

“What do you mean you cut it off?” his coach had yelled. “You still had your hair when you left the rink yesterday!”

It’s a shaggy mess that comes up to his shoulders, obviously hacked off by someone with no professional credibility; Viktor twirled a ragged lock around his finger and shrugged. “Georgi and I went out last night, celebrating him and Nastasya getting together. You know, Yakov, having long hair is _such_ a hassle; I suppose that since yours is falling out you don’t really know.” The shrug that followed was almost foolishly brazen in the face of Mr. Feltsman’s growing rage. “It got in the way when I was -- how do you say it in English -- ah, puking!”

“We were supposed to feature hair in the editorial,” Nigel says weakly. “Hairstyles, a collection of jewelry…”

“Oh, can’t you work with this? I remembered the photoshoot today so I didn’t shave it all off like I wanted.”

The hair stylist in the back end of the room looked like he’s about to faint.

There was a lot of worried, transatlantic phone calls with headquarters, and lots of split second decisions were made. Katya from Russian _Vogue_ ’s hair and makeup department got the honors of giving Viktor Nikiforov a haircut, an image change, and a legacy all in one, and in all the hubbub surrounding the fashion prep, Emily quietly borrowed a pair of skates from the front desk and went out into the rink to check the location herself.

It’s a wide expanse of white ice, an Olympic-sized rink. Emily played hockey for her high school team, so she’s not exactly unfamiliar the ice, but the sheer scale of this rink dwarfed her in every sense, made her feel tiny at 5”5 and insignificant in the home rink of the greatest skaters.

She’d wanted to be an ice skater once. Emily is good on the ice, but only ever good enough for hockey. Speed, precision. But never beauty. She’s only nineteen but she’s learned to swallow that bitterness down.

“You look very at home on the ice.” A soft voice behind her interrupts, tinged with Nikiforov’s unmistakable accent.

“Oh!” Emily nearly falls over on the ice, and reflexively her body curls around her camera. “I um. I play hockey.”

“While you’re being a photography prodigy on the side?” Viktor teases. “I at least have the defense of being good at only one thing.”

“I’m not very good at hockey.” She flushes.

“It seems like you chose something else instead,” he agrees. He gestures to her camera. “Yakov said you go to school for photography? What’s university like?”

He’s taller than her, and has the lean build of an athlete with complete mastery over his own body, but he’s still just seventeen. So Emily tells him about Tisch and her photography classes, and when he oohs and aahs at the most mundane of details, she starts feeling uncomfortable.

“Where do _you_ go to school?” she finally asks. “You train here at St. Pertersburg, right?”

He hums in assent. “Yes, but I don’t go to school! One of the perks of being an athlete.” He winks. “Georgi and I have tutors and we take classes in one of the function rooms here with other junior athletes. Some of them are talking about university though…” He trails off.

“What about you? Any plans for college?” Emily tries for levity but fails; Viktor’s response is much cheerier.

“Why bother? I love skating, and I’m not planning on stopping any time soon!” He does a happy twizzle on the ice and follows it up with some improvised steps; seeing him skate in person only hammers home exactly how well-deserved his Olympic gold was. He comes to a rest a few feet away from Emily, the bay of windows behind him and bathed in the rosy glow of rare autumn sunlight. He smiles at Emily, rough and charming, but a few moments pass and the grin dissolves into a troubled frown.

In that moment, Emily was finally able to get a good look at Viktor: silver hair stylishly cut and skimming over his eyes, dressed in an elegant turtleneck that called attention to the line of his throat and his shoulders, pale hair and black wool a beautiful contrast to the red-orange of the autumn light and the blue of his eyes. It’s an aesthetic compulsion that propels Emily to raise her camera and take the shot; she’s given up on making beauty of her own but documenting others --

    

The sharp click of the camera shutter draws Viktor out of his reverie, and he startles. “Oh, I didn’t know we were…”

“Oh, I couldn’t stop myself,” Emily explains, mortified. “I’m sorry, I --”

“Oh, no, it’s okay,” Viktor reassures her, even as something shutters closed behind his eyes. Everything that was soft about him -- the roundness of his cheek, the flutter of his eyelashes -- vanishes in an instant, hardening into sharp cheekbones and rigid athleticism. “This is a photoshoot -- I forgot, for a moment.” He flashes her a smile. It doesn’t reach his eyes. “Don’t worry, I’ll perform better for you!”


End file.
